A gull, up close,looks surprisingly stuffed.His fluffy chest seems filledwith an inexpensive taxidermist’s materialrather lumpily inserted. The legs,unbent, are childish crayon strokes—too simple to be workable.And even the feather-markings,whose intricate symmetry is the usual glory of birds,are in the gull slovenly,as if God makes too manyto make them very well.

At that hour on the beachwhen flies begin biting in the renewed coolnessand the backsliding skin of the after-surfreflects a pink shimmer before being blotted,the gulls stand around in the dimpled sandlike those melancholy European crowdsthat gather in cobbled public squares in the wakeof assassinations and invasions,heads cocked to hear the latest radio reports.It is also this hour when plump young coupleswalk down to the water, bumping together,and stand thigh-deep in the rhythmic glass.Then they walk back toward the car,tugging as if at a secret between them,but which neither quite knows—walk capricious paths through scattering gulls,as in some mythologiesbeautiful gods stroll unconcernedamong our mortal apprehensions.

About Me

Professor of Philosophy, Calvin College and Editor of Comment magazine. / / This is my space for "thinking out loud," an arena for practice at writing quickly and off-the-cuff. Comments are off, not because I don't value the opinions of others, but simply because I don't have time to do justice in reply.